


Degrees Of Familiarity

by apfelgranate



Series: Line of Durin Bingo Card Shenanigans [4]
Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Pegging, Sibling Incest, Threesome - F/M/M, Weird Elven Sexual Mores, also weird dwarvish sexual mores
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:28:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apfelgranate/pseuds/apfelgranate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a fluke.</p>
<p>A momentary weakness, yet it left accusing marks. Thorin twists to survey the extent of the… damage. Tauriel's fingers left red splotches on his skin, her thumbprint in the groove of his hip, four more spread in a half-circle over his buttock; the pattern repeats itself on his other side where it is his thigh which is marked from her hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Degrees Of Familiarity

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct sequel to 'Gone Astray In Dark Old Places' and references some events/characters from 'A Child Of Steel And Stars' as well, so I would suggest reading those first to avoid confusion.

It was a fluke.

A momentary weakness, yet it left accusing marks. Thorin twists to survey the extent of the… damage. Tauriel's fingers left red splotches on his skin, her thumbprint in the groove of his hip, four more spread in a half-circle over his buttock; the pattern repeats itself on his other side where it is his thigh which is marked from her hand. The bruises are merely superficial, only red instead of the blue-purplish tint that accompanies deeper contusions, and likely will have faded when the elves leave for Mirkwood again, the date of which is only a few days away. And yet…

His split lip still stings. Thorin shakes himself and begins to dress in one of his plainer garbs. He is expected at a council meeting to discuss the negotiated agreements for future trade with Mirkwood in private, and the occasion does not require the finery that a public meal, or even stroll-about, would. He is glad for it, unwilling to risk that an attendant to help him dress might see his tell-tale bruises. He might be king, but gossip can be a dangerous poison.

He hisses lowly as he puts on his britches, the thick fabric dragging uncomfortably over the chafed skin of his prick. It is a small discomfort, and if he presses his palm hard against his crotch, it is only to ease the irritation.

As he reaches for his crown, something stays his hand. He has not worn it since last night's dinner. He was not wearing it when he—when Tauriel—when they _fought_ , and that circumstance seems painfully appropriate now, because he behaved in a way utterly unbefitting a king.

Thorin feels a dreadful cold take root in his chest. He knows he has rarely been the king Erebor deserves. First blinded by goldlust, so consumed with the greedy sickness of his line that he almost squandered any chance to rebuild his wrecked kingdom, just to keep the Arkenstone for himself. He had managed to forgive the hobbit for his betrayal, which he knows in retrospect was a necessary if dishonourable attempt to avoid bloodshed. Although Thorin has no illusions that he would have come to that same conclusion had he not spent days lying on death's doorstep, with Dis' gaze on him, resigned, disappointed and nonetheless sick with worry.

_Do they live?_

_Yes. With no thanks to you, brother._

The peace with Mirkwood is due to others performing silver-tongued duels, while Thorin grit his teeth and smiled and buried his personal grievances (Five strikes, just five rotten strikes and he still feels sick to his stomach whenever he smells vinegar) under layers and layers of courtesy and denial and signed the treaties when they were put before him.

The trade that Erebor now makes with Laketown and the rebuilt Dale would not flourish as it does if there had not been others who could charm the town masters and ambassadors in ways Thorin could not, too obvious in his resentment and suspicion.

A better king would have no need for others to secure the trade and allies a newly reborn and thus fledgling kingdom requires. A better king would not have to fight his own mind as hard as he did to admit the needs of his people before his own. A better king would wear a better mask.

A worthier king would not desire as he did…

The crown stays on its cushion.

\--o--

"You look dreadful, laddie," murmurs Balin.

"Nightmares?" comes Dwalin's gruff voice from his right, softened with concern.

Thorin wants to bury his face in his hands. He must appear a right mess if these two have decided to forego every distanced courtesy royalty demands in order to make their concern known. The other council members have left already, decidedly pleased with themselves and the trade arrangements, and seem to have taken every inch of elevated mood with them. He is grateful that Fili did the same and did not seem to mind that Thorin rarely gave him his attention during the meeting; he does not yet know how to deal with that particular matter, or if he should ignore it altogether.

"I'm fine—" he starts, but looking at the poorly-veiled worry on his oldest friends' faces he cannot bring himself to lie. "I will sleep sounder once this entire business is concluded," he says instead, which is perhaps not the whole truth, although it is certainly part of it.

"Good to hear." Dwalin claps him on the shoulder, his armour clanking with the movement. He smiles, half-hidden by his beard, a gesture Thorin only partly accomplishes to return. Balin makes a noise of agreement as he leans against the edge of the huge slab of polished stone that serves as the council chamber's desk.

"That should be soon, seeing as the treaties will be signed tomorrow. Which reminds me." He sends his brother a significant look, arms crossed. "If you must insist on attending, you have to leave off those knuckle-dusters of yours. That's no way to present yourself at a diplomatic occasion."

"They're part of my regalia," counters Dwalin stubbornly. "It's a ceremonial occasion, ain't it?"

"Well, yes, but you have to take into account that the elves have different customs than we do, and showing up decked out in full armour is not one of them."

"It's our home, it should be _our_ customs that matter."

"You don't really understand the concept of diplomacy, do you?"

"Compromise, yes, you've told me. I'm just not going to compromise on _this_."

A genuine smile tugs at Thorin's lips, and he finds it difficult to hide his amusement. It is an argument the sons of Fundin have had before, its conversational paths well tread, and the familiarity of it is strangely comforting. Sooner or later they will come to a grudging truce: Dwalin will wear his knuckle-dusters with a long-sleeved tunic to conceal them and Balin will acknowledge it with a nod, and later lecture him on the impression it creates when one appears to hide weaponry. The back-and-forth between the brothers is distracting to watch, and pleasant because he can, for once, remain indifferent.

Thorin does not doubt Dwalin's insistence on wearing his favoured weapons as visibly as possible at all times has caused some uneasiness, or perhaps distaste among their elvish visitors, but on the other hand, the elder dwarf's habit has never actually interfered with negotiations.

"You act like I've single-handedly managed to scare them off before," Dwalin says and Balin huffs.

"Don't flatter yourself, brother. I doubt they will stick around for longer than necessary, even without your _charms_."

Dwalin chuckles. "I could think of one."

"Don't try changing the subject now."

That gets Thorin's attention. "Whom do you mean?" he asks, an awful suspicion already taking shape in his mind.

"Hm? Oh, the princeling's guard. The lads showed her the main kitchens three days ago. Apparently the three of them would have gotten into a drinking contest if Bombur hadn't kicked them out again."

_Tauriel. Of course._

Thorin takes a deep breath, casting his gaze to the ground, and tries to ignore the way his heartbeat quickens. Balin takes a cautious step closer.

"It's a good thing, if you think about it," he says quietly, the quarrel with his brother obviously forgotten for the moment. "Friendships make peace a truer thing than ink on paper."

"Friendships," Thorin echoes, his heart climbing into his throat. He has to leave, memories rising inexorably like wrathful ghosts, before his expression reveals— _something_.

_I was bedding the princes._

_The king wants a taste of defilement for himself?_

In the unforgiving light of day, her words ring with a mockery they did not carry when they were spoken, but his shame twists his recollections into cautionary spectres. His insides coil painfully.

"Thorin?"

Thorin stands abruptly, hands clenched into fists on the stone slab.

"No, you're right," he states with a calm utterly constructed by willpower. "It is a good thing."

\--o--

Tauriel spends the morning with Legolas on the archery range. It takes him a few shots to adjust to the targets' low height, and she teases him for it, sorely tempted to tell him the dwarf king calls him princeling, and rightfully so; but she refrains from it because she would not know how to justify that knowledge.

"I fear it is nerves," Legolas admits after he misses the target's centre yet again. "The dwarves are holding final council at the moment, for the trade arrangements."

"You were utterly cordial," Tauriel says gently and bumps his shoulder with her own. "I'm sure everything will be sealed by this time tomorrow." He sighs as he steps aside to let her take her turn.

"You won't be the one with whom my father will find fault if the negotiations fail." That draws a chuckle from her and she pauses in taking her shot, instead turning to him.

"Do you truly believe Thranduil would blame you more than he would blame Thorin?"

"Well, _no_ , but…" He frowns. "You call him by his name?"

"I call your father by name as well," she replies with a shrug; she has done so since he appointed her Captain of the guard, though perhaps not always aloud.

"Father named you his _shade_ ," Legolas counters. "The degree of familiarity is rather different."

Tauriel swallows surreptitiously, forcing down a comment that desperately wants to escape her about _how_ different the degree of familiarity really is.

"As you say," she assents and takes aim. There is a treacherous warmth growing in her belly, and the thrill of sinking arrow after arrow into the target's centre does little to curb it, a flood of images both memory and imagination rising alongside it.

One envisioned glimpse of Thorin, stripped bare and half-tangled in dark sheets, his chest rising and falling with pants, is particularly persistent.

By the time Kili and Fili find her, released from their duties, she is ready to rip something to shreds. She makes her excuses and lets the princes drag her to a well-hidden alcove in a rarely-used corridor, where they proceed to spend half an hour trading kisses, Fili straddling one of her thighs, Kili seated on the other one with his legs stretched out between hers. It drives the king thoroughly from her mind.

\--o--

Dinner is something of a strained affair.

The trade negotiations have officially been concluded and the treaty will be signed on the morrow, barring sudden misfortune. The air is thick with restrained elation, everyone hesitant to celebrate already, when ink and hot wax have yet to be spilled on parchment, but unable to entirely contain their relief over the negotiations' success.

Tauriel has felt the heated weight of Thorin's gaze for the past hour like a personal sun following her, but it skittered away whenever she tried to catch it. She is not sure what to make of it; he has made no further attempt to dissuade her from… dallying with Kili and Fili, nor does he seem to have forbidden them from meeting her. The fact that her mind drifts to the thought of him spread out in her bed quite often admittedly does not confuse her, though it annoys her slightly. She is not used to having fantasies that are so unlikely to be fulfilled.

As dinner continues, she welcomes the distraction of Kili's leg nudging hers under the table, a warmth she feels acutely even through several layers of cloth, and the grin that tugs at the corner of his mouth, heavy with promise. She gives him a small smile of her own in return and presses her thigh against his.

When she looks up again, she finds that Thorin is glaring at her from the head of the table. There is a ruddy cast to his cheeks and it could well be due to fire's heat and ale, but the way he hastily averts his eyes once she catches his expression makes her suspect otherwise.

\--o--

It has become a well-practiced dance. She and Fili sneak into the prince's chambers while Kili distracts the guards who wander the halls with a tale that only a very drunk person would find humorous, stifling their sniggers with hands and biting teeth and finally, finally each other's lips when Kili slips through the doors after them and shoots the bolt.

Tauriel sweeps Fili up into her arms, golden hair flying, laughing against her mouth. She whirls around, half-dancing as she carries him to the bed, Kili's hastened footsteps hurrying after them. Fili's back hits the bed just before her knees hit the floor and he arches like a cat, legs tight around her waist, heat and friction dragging a moan from Tauriel's throat that Kili steals right out of her mouth, his entire body pressed to her side.

His fingers tangle with hers as they both move to open Fili's tunic and both of them get distracted with blindly groping at the dwarf's chest, belly, the hardness growing between his thighs. Fili groans, writhes, begs, "Come on, please, been waiting all day to get my mouth on you—"

"Which one," Kili asks, his breath hitting Tauriel's neck, and elf and dwarf alike shiver with the reply: "Both of you, damn it, when she's inside you, I want to—"

Tauriel silences him with a kiss, greedy, while Kili tears off his own boots, then his brother's, a constant rustle of clothes, nimble fingers unlacing Tauriel's corset, the tie of her dress at the back of her neck. She leans back to rip the dress over her head and all three of them move onto the bed like a wave, swept up by eager desire and familiarity. There is no confusion as she rolls onto her back and draws Kili close again, as she opens her legs for Fili to slide between, as she nips at his mouth the way Fili nips at her bared breasts.

There is such ease in it; in fisting her hand into Kili's hair and knowing the noise it will pull from him, wanton and throaty, in the trail of teasing licks and bites Fili leaves on his way down her body, right where she shivers with it, in the push of her other hand on the back of his head when he at last gets his mouth on her.

Her heart beats rabbit-quick in her chest, heat pooling swiftly in her loins, flames fanned by the thought of what is to come, and with Kili's body crowded close, slicking with sweat, mouth open and panting against hers, his hands restless on her skin, she comes before her boots are even off. Her peak is short and sharp and sweet and she arches with it, fingers clawing at the sheets. Through it all, Fili's mouth is insistent, driving her pleasure. It only gentles once he draws away to undo her shoelaces and rids her of her leggings and boots.

After, he stands and undresses under the watchful eyes of her and Kili, his mouth red and shiny with wet. Tauriel slides her arms around Kili, draws him onto her lap and smiles at the hunger in Fili's eyes when her hand wraps around his brother's cock. Kili's hips jerk and he gasps out a noise that might have been _please_.

"Do you want us both to open you up?" she murmurs, nuzzling the skin under his ear, her free hand skirting along his spine, teasing him with the promise of touch and not quite, not yet delivering. The bed dips as Fili joins them, vial of oil and carved wood and leather harness in his hands.

"I don't—I don't believe I need it," whispers Kili, eyes closed, blush staining his cheeks a dark pink.

For a long moment both her and Fili stare at the blush spreading down Kili's chest, then at each other, and then they tackle Kili to the bed.

"You think you can take me like that," she hisses, biting the words into the hollow of his neck, while Fili breathes, "You're _greedy_ , brother," and Kili fists his hands into her hair and drags her up into a messy kiss and rasps, "I _know_ I can."

Tauriel searches blindly for the harness, finding it at last when Kili breaks away for air.

"Let us do it," Fili whispers, his mouth dragging along the curve of her shoulder blade.

"All right…" she says on a blissful sigh, the urgency of a moment before abandoning her to leave behind steadily, strongly smouldering embers.

It is not actually quicker this way, but she enjoys watching the two of them fumble with the straps, even after all this time. She lifts her hips off the bed so they can sling the largest thong beneath and Kili follows the motion back down with his mouth, licking a stripe over her hipbone. He smirks at the way she jerks and she huffs, pushing his head towards her crotch in retaliation, with a smirk of her own. Fili lets out a hitched noise as Kili's mouth drags along the carved wood, and then they're kissing around it, messily and with every intention of riling her up if their sloppy grins are any indication.

Tauriel's skin tingles. "That won't be enough slick," she says. "And you got the left knot wrong."

They laugh and draw away, Kili reaching for the oil while Fili ties said knot anew. The first splash of oil ends up on her belly because Fili nibbles at Kili's shoulder as he turns the vial over, but the next one dribbles down her wooden prick. Four hands spread the oil along its length until it glints with wetness and Tauriel's hips rise of their own accord to move into their touch, like the wood has become part of her, able to feel the slide of skin and the pleasure it carries. She can scarcely wait to bury herself in Kili's heat.

As she reaches for him, there is a whisper in the back of her mind, a memory grown into a haunting spectre she has not heard in months, _You make yourself into something else, For a man's pleasure, It's shamef_ —

Tauriel has become very adept at choking that voice, whose words had once been Tuviel's and spoken in disappointment, tendered with nothing but well-meaning intent. Now, she easily crumbles it to dust. If she hesitates, neither of the brothers notices it.

Kili straddles her lap, his back to her chest, Fili's hands on his sides to steady him. She bends her fingers over his hips and tugs him back until her prick slides between his buttocks to prod at his opening. She curls one hand around the wood to secure it, and on an exhale, pulls.

"Breathe with me," she murmurs into the skin of his shoulder, "go slowly." He nods, reaching up to take hold of Fili's shoulders and inches deeper, breath for breath matched to hers, then Fili's joins them, the noise of three lungs expanding and contracting concurrently almost a song in the air.

" _Mahal_ ," Kili moans when he settles fully in her lap. His fingers are white, gone bloodless with the pressure of digging into Fili's shoulders, whose own hands are stroking ceaselessly over his brother's sides.

"Is it too much?" Tauriel asks breathlessly, hooking her chin over his shoulder to see that his hardness stands stiff and red.

"No," comes the reply, "It's good…" fading into a sigh as Fili kisses him and the weight of them presses the base of the wood against her core, a teasing push that makes her hips jerk. The movement jolts Kili and Fili apart and Kili's mouth smears hotly along her jaw as he grabs at her, curses mouthed into her skin as she slings her arms around him and reclines until she rests against the pillows piled high to the headboard.

Fili whispers something that might be Khuzdul, words like gravel, hands spreading Kili's thighs apart until they are flung out over her legs, and Kili's entire body quakes. Tauriel shivers with him, and slides her hands down his torso to rest over his hipbones as Fili crawls forward to kneel in the vee of their legs.

She cannot grind into Kili deep and hard the way she itches to do, only little hitches of her hips instead, yet this is just as good, watching Fili's mouth descend to bite at his brother's inner thighs, his red tongue, the slip of teeth-white. Kili's head lolls back, resting against her shoulder and she grabs his hair again.

" _Watch_ ," she tells him, the word mouthed into the pulse thrumming under the skin of his neck and he does so with a shuddering sigh, watches as Fili takes him into his mouth and sucks, as Fili ducks down to tongue the apex of Tauriel's thighs, as Fili bites at the skin under his navel while he thrashes in her grip, keening, his release splattering onto Fili's chest. He watches, chest still heaving, as she eases Fili open, nigh too fast and too eagerly, and nudges inside him and presses him down into the bed with her hips, his body arching under hers, begging with words and broken noises, and ruts into him and has both of them set aflame with pleasure, soaring and voiceless with it; and through it all Kili's dark-eyed gaze is like warm heavy hands on her skin.

Fili's breath leaves him on helpless, near-pained sobs after he has spilled, staining the sheets slick, but he pushes back against her thrusts, hips rising to meet hers and she comes with a shuddering, drawn-out moan, their fingers interlaced where she has gripped his hands with her own.

After she has regained a semblance of sense, she withdraws carefully. Fili's skin is gleaming with sweat and oil, blood-flushed and rubbed tender where the leather of her harness ground against his buttocks, and downright ruddy where she breached him. The sight has something that feels suspiciously like fondness growing in her chest, the way he looks so boneless, so wrecked.

_Defiled_ , Thorin's voice snarls in her mind and she very nearly flinches. Tauriel swallows heavily. This is a new spectre, one that she does not comprehend, and one that nonetheless stings. Fili does indeed look wrecked, but to call his expression anything but blissed-out would be quite disingenuous. The reasoning for Thorin's accusal escapes her understanding—after all, if anyone were to dishonour themselves in this, it would be her. And even if the dwarves held different ideas about it, the brothers have never indicated that they consider their activities to be shameful, notwithstanding the fact that the three of them most likely would fall into disgrace if their affair were to become public knowledge.

"Tauriel?" The bed dips slightly as Kili kneels down beside her, his brows drawn into a small frown. He holds a wet cloth in his hands and his chest is still pinkish underneath downy hair. She appears to have drifted off for longer than she thought.

"I was merely thinking," she tells him, reaching out and smoothing her thumb over Kili's brow, and curls her knuckles along his cheek in a caress.

"You're lovely," she whispers, then bends down to nuzzle Fili's ear. "Both of you." Fili shivers.

"You just want to keep me in the wet spot," he mutters, but he grins as he says it and at her tug he rolls easily onto his side, head tilting up for a kiss. She nips at his neck instead while Kili claims his lips. None of them truly pay attention to the motion of their hands, but they do manage to clean Fili of most of the seed sticking to his front.

Kili's fingers brush across Tauriel's belly once the cloth is put away again, teasing under the harness to rub at her nub.

"Are you sore?" he asks, one corner of his mouth twisting into up into a grin.

Tauriel shakes her head. She is not, far from it, and his touch sends sparks skittering over her skin, but… "I think you'll be quite sore, if you want me to have you again."

Fili chuckles, one hand drawing lazy circles on his brother's hip. "He was sore this morning, too," he says. "I'm starting to believe you like that, Kili." Kili's grin simply broadens to face-splitting width, and Tauriel is helpless to resist, not that she has any intention of doing so.

She claps Fili's flank. "Give us some room, then." It takes a bit of wriggling but after a minute Fili settles against the headboard while Tauriel has located the oil vial again and moved further down the bed, kneeling with legs spread for Kili to fit between. For a moment, she gets distracted with watching the arc of his spine as he bends over to brace himself on his elbows, until he squirms back against her, skin sticking.

"Come _on,_ take me," he goads, arching like he is in heat, and she grabs his buttock, her thumb sliding into the cleft.

"Don't be so impatient," she says with a chuckle as she upends the vial to empty out the last of the oil. Kili keens when she spreads him open for the second time that night, a ruined thing of a sound that is echoed by Fili's harsh sudden breath, by her own shallow pants. She fills him in one long, slow slide, and takes him with short sharp thrusts that shove noises from both of them.

When she looks up, she finds that Fili's cock has swollen with blood and his hand is curled around it like he is teasing himself with the touch; his eyes are wide and dark with want. Tauriel smirks and latches onto Kili's ear with her teeth, thrusting roughly into him, and Fili's eyelids flutter shut as though she did it to him.

"Do you want him?" she asks, her voice gone rough and low.

" _Yes_ ," comes the hissed reply from both brothers, and she chuckles and reaches over Kili to grab Fili's ankle, then drags him down the bed. He laughs in surprise, a sound that turns into a giggle halfway through and fades into a sigh when Kili buries his face in the joint of Fili's thighs. The oil has been used up, but spit seems to be quite sufficient for Fili as Kili crooks first one, then two fingers inside him, his mouth closing over the head of Fili's prick and sliding down.

Fili's legs are trembling, his mouth open and panting, and Tauriel, having slowed as Kili got busy, stretches herself out along the curve of Kili's back, bracing one hand on the bed while she splays the other on his lower abdomen and, instead of thrusting, _lifts_. It gets her a desperate, muffled wet moan from him, a garbled noise from Fili and she cannot tell which one of them begs her to do it _again, harder, please_ , but she does, and it draws a threefold sound from all of them.

\--o--

Kili is indeed sore. It is a deep, pleasant ache that has diminished since he woke in the morning, but which nonetheless makes its presence gleefully known whenever he sits down. It is strange, how little he minds that.

Now, sitting with Tauriel beside him on a bench at the edge of the archery range to mend their bowstrings because both of them tore within the space of half an hour, he cannot help but squirm with it. She gives him a knowing smile, eyebrows raised, though she remains silent, and Kili has to suppress the childish urge to stick his tongue out at her.

"Fili already said 'I told you so' this morning," he mutters, cheeks and chest growing warm under her gaze.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it."

"Not quite," she says, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I was thinking about all the ways we could make you sore again tonight."

Kili swallows heavily. Tauriel's gaze flits to his throat, then his mouth, and he can tell she wants to kiss him, not least because he has seen that particular expression on his brother's face often enough, has worn it himself countless times. But while the archery range may be empty at the moment, they are not safe from view, if anyone were to walk in…

Tauriel's hands are motionless now, no longer twisting the new bowstring. Her upper body sways forward and Kili's head tilts up without thought, ready to throw caution to the wind, when the sound of footsteps has them jerking apart.

It is Fili, and the tension that had stiffened his and Tauriel's body vanishes abruptly, both of them deflating with a sigh. Fili gives them a wan smile when he spots them and his pace quickens as he approaches them. He looks vaguely exhausted, a tired cast to his eyes, and he slumps down onto the bench between them, leaning heavily into Kili.

"Dwalin nearly started a row," he mutters, "but the treaties are signed."

"That's great," Kili says, smiling. "Isn't it?" Tauriel smiles as well, but it is a melancholy one. She puts her bowstring aside and curls one hand over Fili's thigh, close to his knee.

"So I will soon be leaving, then."

"Yes. Tonight there will be a feast, and tomorrow…" Fili trails off. Kili feels himself grow cold, despite his brother's warmth. He had—not forgotten, but rather inadvertently ignored—that Tauriel would leave once the negotiations were done. Of course she has to leave, she has obligations in Mirkwood, besides the fact that it was her home, and it had been foolish to think—to hope…

"Kili," Tauriel whispers, reaching out with her other hand to caress his cheek, heedless of any potential witnesses. Fili has tangled his fingers with hers, resting on the curve of his knee. "There's still this night. And I'm sure we can come up with a pretence that requires my presence here, or yours in Mirkwood."

"I know." Kili tilts his head into her touch, his lips dragging over her skin as her hand falls away again.

"Pouting is unbecoming of a prince," Fili points out, one corner of his mouth twisting up in a smirk, but his voice is gentle. Kili laughs lightly, though his throat is tight.

"I don't suppose we can absent ourselves wholly from the feast, can we?"

\--o--

Thorin's feet are traitorous things.

He had seen first Tauriel slip away from the celebrations, then Fili and Kili shortly afterwards, and grit his teeth, bit his lips and spared no thought for what the three of them would surely be up to. Yet somehow, now when the hours of the night are small and cold, his feet have carried him to the mouth of the corridor that leads to his nephews' chambers.

The torch nearest to him has extinguished, plunging him into semi-darkness. He has been standing frozen for so long his eyes have adjusted well to the poor light. He should not be here. He should not be hoping for _her_ to be here.

A creaking sound is audible, metal sliding over metal, then the door to Kili's rooms inches open, Kili's head barely sticking out and Thorin does not _hide_ , he merely… shuffles further into darkness, until his back is snug against the green stone of an alcove wall.

" _Oi_ ," Kili calls out, hushed but insistent, and Thorin bites down on his tongue. There is a pause during which only soft shuffling can be heard, then again Kili's voice.

"There's no one around. You—you can go."

"All right." It is Tauriel. "Oh, come here…" A faint wet noise, like mouths meeting and sliding against each other. Thorin's stomach flips, gooseflesh rippling over his back in a dreadfully pleasant frisson.

"I still think you should spend the night," Fili says after a minute.

"Please, it's the last night," adds Kili.

"I shouldn't. What would someone think when they come to wake me and the bed has not even been disturbed?"

"They'll think you're an early bird who makes her bed."

"Come on, we won't kick. Much."

"Those are truly terrible arguments," Tauriel mutters, but she sounds oddly… fond. She heaves a pained sigh. "It's too much of a risk. I can't stay."

Thorin can hear her move, her footsteps, and the scrape of wood over stone as the door closes again, falling shut with a final clap. He does not dare wonder what makes him step from the alcove out into the hallway, but it is this same thing that has his breath hitching and his blood rising to the skin when he sees her. It is mere seconds before she notices his presence, seconds of seeing her loose-limbed and smiling contently as she curls her fingers around a single braid in her otherwise dishevelled hair.

She looks up, catches sight of him, and freezes; though between one breath and the next, her expression melts into a familiar one, her smile wry, brows raised above hooded eyes.

"If you're here to tell us to cease consorting, I fear you're too late," she says, ambling closer.

"I wasn't—"

"Did you lose your way again, then?"

Thorin bristles, stepping forward with a snarl. "You _insolent_ —woman."

Tauriel chuckles, and suddenly there is only a foot of space between them and then there is none, for her hand alights on his chest, fingers splayed wide. The touch runs right through his armour and his clothes, his pulse spiking, like she laid hand directly to his skin.

He should push her away. He does not.

"I've been called worse for less. And I think I'm not the only one of us who has been brazen." Her smile draws into a knife again, and again it cuts into Thorin, his breath leaving him on a rush.

"You've been watching me," she observes quietly, "like you're trying to imagine what I look like nude."

Lungs desperately empty, he is unable to deny her claim, even though he has not (He has, but the number of thoughts dedicated to wondering if she is hairless all over are few in comparison to those spent imagining what her naked skin would feel like gliding against his as she slid in-between his thighs.)

She bends down and if Thorin pushes against her hand with a glare instead of backing away, the slightest of pressures, it is only to prove himself stronger than he was the first time, to prove he will not be overcome by her vicinity again.

"You confound me, Thorin," she whispers in a tone of confidentiality. "You call it defilement, and still you kiss me." Her breath flows over his skin, warm and beckoning.

"I'd like to do it again, if you want to. Although, preferably in a bed. With less clothes."

She is close enough to kiss, a scant inch of warm air separating their mouths. It would be so easy, to tilt his head up and to the side, or for her to close the distance within a second, and Thorin does not dare allow himself to blink because if he did his lids would remain shut and Tauriel would—she would…

_She would give you what you crave, wretched king_.

Thorin flinches, ice in his veins and his throat feels drought-stricken as he rasps, " _No_. No, leave me."

Tauriel recedes immediately, a different kind of dark in her eyes.

"Are you afraid of me?" she asks, like she could not feel his heart's panicked beat under her hand, like the thought never occurred to her before this instant.

"What is there to frighten me?" he spits harshly, with a viciousness that is to wipe the dark-eyed pity from her face as much as it is to stifle the words rising in his throat, _You make me want things I should not want_.

"That is what I ask," she replies quietly. Having choked the words he cannot speak, there are none left for him with which to answer, and Thorin watches, struck silent, as Tauriel waits for him to speak, until she cards her fingers through her hair with a deep sigh and says, "I wish you a peaceful sleep, Thorin."

For a second, he thinks she will leave, but instead she turns around and walks back to Kili's door.

She knocks. "Fili, Kili, it's me. Open up," she calls and they do, the sound of hurried footsteps preceding the door being flung open and she steps through before either of them have the opportunity to walk out into the corridor and catch a glimpse of him.

"I changed my mind."

"What—what happened to 'It's too much of a risk'?" It is Kili's voice, breathless with elation.

"Are you complaining?"

"No, I— _mmh_." Somebody laughs, and Thorin thinks it must be Fili, for it is his deep rumbling laughter, but quickly it morphs into an indecipherable mess of soft words and sounds that is cut off by the door sliding shut. There is a dull thud and three muffled voices, fading with distance.

Thorin's legs are shaky. His crown can offer no protection from this. This is a weakness all his own.

\--o--

Sleep eludes Thorin, the lack of it has him twisting and turning in his bed. Like a cruel jest of fate, now that the elves have departed and the temptation to seek out Tauriel has crumbled to dust, a new one has arisen. One that fills his mind with illusions of dark skin over lean muscle, of nimble long-fingered hands, of a searing mouth and pitch-dark eyes and a smile like a knife, one that drives his blood south and leaves him aching.

He rolls onto his belly with a grunt of frustration, which quickly proves to have been a severely bad idea. It provides maddening friction on his blood-heavy cock, and his hips grind into the mattress before he can stop himself.

The friction pulls a strangled moan from his throat, pleasure a sharp spike in his gut. He does it again, again, smothering his noises in the sheets, then forces himself to cease moving.

He will not give in to this, he will not be weak again. His legs tremble with the effort to stay still, hips raised slightly from the bed, his cock begging for touch, and he cannot quite bring himself to turn on his back again. What harm would there be…

He will not think of her, at least.

_Thorin_ , Tauriel's voice whispers in his mind, sudden and gleeful like she wants to spite him. He can feel the phantom pressure of her hands on his hips, tugging him up and driving down again.

_Let me take you, Thorin._

His breath leaves him on a sob and he gives in.

He imagines he is not Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, but merely Thorin, a wandering blacksmith with no kingdom and no title and the bed on which he lies is not his own but hers; imagines how Tauriel's smile would feel sliding down his back, how easily her long fingers would reach that spot inside him, how the length of her body would curve around his as she breached him, how she would say his name like a curse and prayer at once, how she would make that shuddering core-of-the-mountain sound as she came, her breath hot and wet upon his neck—

Thorin bites his lip bloody in an attempt not to scream and spills, soiling the sheets.

(This is not a fluke.)


End file.
